a
little miniature of George the Fifth and flung it on the floor at his
feet.

If Geoffrey had ever hesitated, it was not now, though Maggie Windsor
was lost to him, and then she had loved him. That was in the old, weak
days of his, before Dacre's death. "If Maggie Windsor is married, God
bless her!" he replied, simply. Then, walking to the door, he rang the
bell.

Mrs. Carey fell back upon the chair crying. Geoffrey left the room. A
minute after he had gone she rose, and drying her tears, went to the
entrance of the hotel, where she called a carriage and drove back to the
Court of St. James. She went directly into the King's anterooms. No one
was there but Jawkins.

"Ah, Mrs. Carey--just in time to remind you of our little compact," said
he. As she looked at him, he stood, smiling grossly, vulgar, sensual,
mean. All the years of her debasement came to her memory with a new
sting to her wounded pride, and she swept on, ignoring him.

"Come, come, Eleanor--among old friends, this won't do, you know. Give
me your hand. Let's see--what's the price to kiss it now? It used to
cost five shillings." And Jawkins imprinted an attempted kiss, clumsily,
upon the palm of the hand. "When do you leave the court? They don't like
you here overmuch, I fancy. But you've been well advertised."

Mrs. Carey lost control of herself for the first time that day.

"How dare you speak thus to me? I, who was--who am your--"

"Oswald Carey's wife," Jawkins spoke contemptuously.

"Your King's wife!" cried Mrs. Carey. Jawkins laughed and threw back a
curtain. Behind it stood the King. He did not look at her, but waved her
from him with his hand. She looked at him a minute or two, but then left
the room. As the door closed behind her the King looked up.

"Well, Jawkins, it's done."

"Yes, your Majesty."

"She was a devilish fine woman." Jawkins started to go.

"Stay, Jawkins, a moment. Ah! you told me you had made a good mint out
of--Are you in funds over here?"

"Quite, your Majesty."

"Jawkins, my bankers are devilish slow. I wish you could manage to
advance me a few thousands or so."

CHAPTER XIX.

A WOMAN'S END.

The great cafe of the Trimountain Hotel is one of those interiors which
can only be seen in America. Lit at night by a single electric glow,
softened and unified in passing through the ground-glass ceiling, it is
brilliant with mirrors and cut-glass and china. At one end of the room
is the long bar, glitte